Anya and the Nightingale

by Sofiya Pasternack

A column of water shot out of the stream, and Ivan yanked his magic threads with the magic metal on the ends of his staff. Anya took her bow from where it hung across her back and nocked an arrow into it, aiming at the boy, who walked a dozen or so paces behind them.

  “Håkon,” she said as she held the boy in her sights, “go.”

  “Go where?” he hissed.

  She didn’t answer. Her arms trembled. She didn’t usually hold the arrow for this long, but she couldn’t make herself fire at the boy. He was going to kill Ivan, kill all of them, and she still couldn’t let the arrow fly at him.

  Sigurd’s ghost leered at her from the back of her mind. “You’ll all die this time.”

  Ivan’s water column blasted toward the sound sorcerer. He didn’t even try to get out of the way. Anya knew for sure the water would hit him hard, knock him down, make it possible for them to escape. But then the boy jumped.

  No, he didn’t jump. It was more of a casual hop, but he didn’t come back down. His foot hooked on something in the air and he hopped again, bounding up an invisible set of steps as Ivan’s water column thundered through where he had just stood.

  Anya lowered her bow, letting her arrow go slack against the bowstring, gaping at the boy flying above the road.

  Then he dropped to the ground and whistled again.

  Håkon yelled at Ivan. “Get behind a tree!”

  Ivan didn’t. With his staff, he grabbed another ribbon of water and hurled it at the whistling sorcerer, then grabbed another and another. He flung water balls frantically, panting. He was getting exhausted.

  The boy lifted his hands—and caught the water balls. He rolled them all into a big water ball, then threw it back at Ivan.

  Anya lurched forward and grabbed Ivan. She yanked him out of the way of the water. The ball blasted where Ivan had just been, smashing into a tree on the other side.

  Anya dragged Ivan after her to where Håkon staggered away on the road. They hooked Håkon under his armpits and pulled him as fast as they could over the bridge. Ivan stumbled; the gash in his forehead still bled. As they rounded another curve in the road, the ground under them rumbled.

  “No, no, no,” Anya muttered to herself. Did this mean another ball of explosive noise was on its way? They had to outrun it. So far, all the sound magic had hit the ground eventually. If they could just get past it . . .

  Five men on horseback thundered toward them. Anya screamed and clasped Håkon to her, hugging him and Ivan in the middle of the road as the horses galloped past. They threw dirt up in sprays. Four of the five riders had bows with arrows nocked and drawn. The fifth held a torch aloft.

  Anya watched the sound sorcerer storm around the bend, hands up, ready to throw more magic at them. The riders didn’t hesitate. The first one swept his arrow through the torch, lighting the end on fire. He let the arrow fly, and it hit the ground in front of the boy.

  The flame didn’t hiss out like Anya thought it would. Something in the arrow’s tip broke and spattered, and the flames caught the liquid. The fire jumped to the road. Anya stared, mouth open. What kind of arrows could do that?

  The second archer fired; then the third, and the fourth. Their arrows landed in a row across the road, making a flaming barrier. Anya fully expected the sorcerer to control the fire as he had Ivan’s water, or hop over it on steps of air. But he recoiled, his face twisting at the sight of the flames, and he glared at the riders who stood between him and Anya.

  An archer aimed an arrow at the sorcerer, and the boy lifted his arms. But he didn’t do magic this time. He darted into the air, hopping toward the trees, and then . . .

  He vanished.

  Anya blinked at the spot he had been in. He had just evaporated.

  What kind of sorcerer could control elements and sound, then vanish into thin air?

  Ivan dabbed his fingers into the blood dripping down his forehead and mumbled, “I hit my head.”

  “Yeah.” Anya watched two of the archers trot their horses to where the sorcerer had disappeared, while the other three turned their steeds to her and Ivan.

  The torchbearer was closest. He wore armor similar to Dobrynya’s—made of small scales fixed together that flexed as he moved—but his was shinier than the bogatyr’s had been. His chain-mail shirt beneath the armor was more of a long, hooded tunic. It covered his head and face from the nose down and went all the way to his knees. The metal helmet over his chain-mail hood had a nosepiece that obscured the middle of his face, leaving only his eyes visible, a bright blue shade similar to Håkon’s. The helmet shone in the sun, and Anya made out intricate designs smithed into its brim. A rich scarlet cloak covered his back and fell past the saddle behind him.

  The others were dressed similarly but lacked helmets. Their cloaks were a different shade of red—duller—and while their armor was just as shined, it was more dented.

  Why did these Pecheneg archers have armor that looked just like that of a bogatyr of Kievan Rus’?

  With a voice that was equal parts youth and unquestioning command, the torchbearer barked, “What are you doing on this road?” It was the voice of a woman.

  She spoke Russian, not whatever the Pechenegs spoke. It sounded fluent and native, not like Babulya when she spoke with her heavy accent. And her dialect was that of a bigger city—very much like Ivan’s.

  Anya, Ivan, and Håkon exchanged alarmed, disbelieving looks. The torchbearer was a girl? And Russian?

  Anya licked her lips. “We, uh—”

  “This road is off-limits!” the torchbearer snapped.

  “I know,” Anya said, struggling to find an excuse. She definitely wasn’t going to bring up Ivan’s highwayman theory. She motioned to Håkon, who was hunched down, hair hanging over his face. “My friend is sick, and we got lost—”

  The torchbearer narrowed her eyes. “How?”

  “How what?” Anya said.

  “How did you get lost so close to Kiev?” the torchbearer barked.

  Anya stared with disbelief. She couldn’t speak. Why would Lena send them to Kiev?

  “Of course, Kiev!” Ivan said, forcing a laugh out. He smacked Anya lightly on the arm. “Yes, Kiev is where we wanted to go. Absolutely.”

  The torchbearer glared at him. “What’s your business in Kiev?”

  “Our business?” Ivan asked. He looked at Anya, face paling, then back at the torchbearer. “Our business is with the tsar, of course.”

  Anya winced. Ivan must have hit his head especially hard. Business with the tsar? They couldn’t do that! What business could they possibly have with him?

  The torchbearer pulled her cowl down and let it rest under her chin. She was as young as Ivan, likely not even sixteen yet, with red cheeks topped with freckles. Her mouth was curled into a stern frown.

  She looked familiar.

  Anya glanced at Håkon, who still hunched with his hair hanging over his face. Was it Anya’s imagination, or did Håkon look like this torchbearer who barked questions at them?

  The torchbearer said, “What business?”

  Ivan gasped a little, then threw his arms up in the air. “Your Highness!” He bowed low to her. “It’s so good to see you!”

  Anya froze, eyes wide, staring at the torchbearer before her. The princess of Kiev? Out riding around, fighting a monster in Patzinakia?

  The princess wrinkled her nose. “Do I know you?”

  Ivan laughed. “Princess Vasilisa! Always the comedian!”

  To Anya, Vasilisa didn’t look like a comedian. She looked like a person about to tell Ivan that he was stupid.

  Anya let Ivan talk as she scooted closer to Håkon. She didn’t want him to look up. What would the princess of Kiev say if she saw Håkon’s face? The more Anya looked at the princess, the more she reminded her of what Håkon looked like now . . . They were so similar. Why would Lena do that? And why would she send them to Kiev? Had she been confused?

  Was Papa in Kiev, instead of Patzinakia, for some reason?

  Ivan continued
on like the princess wasn’t glaring at him. “Ivan Vosmyorka Ivanovich Ivanov.” He bowed low again, with a flourish this time. Blood flipped from the gash on his forehead to the road. “Son of Ivan Yedinitsa Ivanovich Ivanov, your blessed father’s imperial fool.”

  Anya wondered if invoking his father’s name was going to cause trouble for Ivan’s family at all. But he didn’t seem worried. Wasn’t that the point of fools, anyway? To be unpredictable and do foolish things?

  Princess Vasilisa’s eyebrows lifted. “And you have business with my father?”

  “We do, Your Highness.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Your business with the tsar is to explain to him why you’re trespassing on a forbidden road.”

  Anya and Ivan balked at the same time. “What?”

  The princess looked down her nose at them, and with arctic coldness in her voice, said, “Seize them.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The four other archers leaped off their horses and came toward where Anya and Ivan supported Håkon. Håkon clung to Anya, his eyes wide and terrified.

  “Anya,” he whispered, the rising panic in his voice unmistakable, “don’t let them take me.”

  “We’ll be okay,” Anya said, even though she had no idea if they actually would be. “This is just a misunderstanding.”

  The archer who reached them first was only a little taller than Håkon, and Anya suspected he was about Ivan and Håkon’s age. It was hard to tell exactly. All the archers still had their chain-mail cowls up, obscuring everything but their eyes. The one in front of them had a pink scar marring the olive skin next to his left eye.

  One of the archers took Ivan’s staff away from him, and another took Anya’s bow and quiver of arrows. Without their weapons, they had nothing: Anya had dropped their bags while they ran from the sound sorcerer.

  The archer with the scar put his hand on Håkon’s shoulder. In a surprisingly soft voice, he said, “Can you walk?”

  Before Håkon could speak, Anya said, “He’s very sick. That’s why we came this way. We thought it would be shorter.”

  The archer met her eyes. “That’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

  Anya didn’t know if he meant killed by the sorcerer or killed by the tsar. She swallowed hard.

  Håkon stumbled to his knees as the archers walked him toward where the princess waited impatiently on her horse. After exchanging looks and a few quiet words, one of the archers let Håkon ride with him on his horse. Håkon clung to the saddle and clenched his jaw as the horse walked forward. Once they saw Håkon being helped, Ivan and Anya went with the archers without a fuss.

  The other archers mounted their horses, and the princess set off down the road. The archer with Håkon followed her.

  The archer who had asked Håkon if he could walk extended a hand to Anya. She stared at it for a few moments before he sighed and said, “Do you want to ride with me or walk?”

  “Oh.” Anya reached for his hand, then withdrew. “Can Ivan ride with someone too?”

  The archer laughed. “Sure. He can ride with our Ivan.” He nodded toward another archer, who leaned down to pull Ivan onto his horse, and then took Anya’s hand when she grabbed his.

  Anya climbed behind the archer, holding on to the saddle at first. When he clicked his tongue, the horse trotted forward and Anya almost slid right off its back. She grabbed the archer around his chest long enough to get balanced, then released him quickly.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was falling off.”

  He cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t want that. Uh, my name is Mikhail.”

  “I’m Anya,” she said.

  “Anya,” he said, “have you ever ridden a horse before?”

  Anya laughed before she could stop herself. Hours on Alsvindr, back and forth across the valley, feeling her ancestors down to her bones. She pressed her lips together, took a breath, and then said, “Yes, I have.”

  “And it’s funny that you have?” He sounded amused.

  “I guess,” Anya said. “I ride Alsvindr pretty much every day.”

  Mikhail swiveled to look back at her. “Alsvindr?”

  “I didn’t name him,” Anya said. “He’s a Varangian horse, so he has a Varangian name.”

  His eyes widened. “You have a Varangian horse?”

  “Yes.” She fiddled with the edge of her coat’s sleeve. “Are we in much trouble?”

  Mikhail looked forward again. “I think your friend being sick is going to get you some leeway. But the tsar closed off this road for a reason. For safety.”

  Anya thought it was unfair to close a road for safety and then punish people who trespassed on it. Maybe they’d just get a talking-to and be released. Hopefully nothing more. She needed to get to Papa soon.

  In front of them, the fool Ivan sat silently behind the archer Ivan, and farther ahead, Håkon hunched on his archer’s horse. The princess still held up the torch, fiery and writhing in the wind.

  “Why doesn’t she put the torch out?” Anya asked. “That sorcerer is gone.”

  Mikhail laughed a cold laugh. “He’s not gone. He’s just watching.”

  “Watching?” Anya’s skin prickled again.

  The archer nodded. “He’ll leave us alone as long as we have fire. He hates fire.”

  “Why?” Anya asked.

  “I think it’s because he’s some kind of forest creature,” Mikhail said. “And fire burns the forest. So he doesn’t like fire.”

  She turned to look at the trees. No insidious movement drew her eye. She scanned the trees for a few breaths, then turned back to Mikhail.

  “Who is he?” she asked. “Why is he attacking people?”

  Mikhail shrugged. “He showed up two years ago and started to attack travelers on the road. He would throw his magic, whatever it is, at them. He destroyed hundreds of caravans. The tsar would send soldiers out here to find and catch him, but he can disappear when he wants to.”

  Anya nodded, remembering. She had seen it with her own eyes. One moment he had been skipping through the air and the next . . . gone.

  “We can’t ever find him,” the archer continued. “One time, the tsar tried to chop down that big tree. We’re pretty sure that’s where he lives. But the trees attacked the lumbermen.”

  “The trees attacked?” Anya asked.

  “Yep.” The archer was more animated. “Tore out of the earth and walked. Fire didn’t stop the trees, even. So the lumbermen ran. The trees followed all the way to the river and died there. But no lumbermen will come into this side of the forest anymore.”

  Anya pressed her lips together, mind whirring. What kind of magic could animate trees? Mama and Babulya could make the trees use their branches, but could they pull a tree from the earth and make it walk around? Anya hadn’t even known there was such a thing as sound magic. How many other magics were there that she had no idea about?

  She glanced at the archer in front of them. He had Ivan’s staff and Anya’s bow strapped to his saddle. She pointed. “I want my bow back.”

  Mikhail snorted. “You can’t have weapons in the presence of the princess.”

  “You do,” Anya said.

  “We’re different,” Mikhail said. “We’re her vanguard. We have special permission.”

  “Ivan has special permission to use magic,” Anya said, “and he uses the staff for magic. So he should get it back.”

  Mikhail said, “What about your bow? Do you use that for magic too?”

  Anya held her breath for a moment, then let it out silently. “I don’t have magic.”

  Past the trees, Kiev appeared. The tall stone wall rose up on the other side of a brown river about half as wide as the Sogozha River was at home. Guards patrolled on top of the wall, peering over at the archers, and more stood on the stone bridge over the river. The guards stood aside as the five horses and their riders passed. She caught some of them giving her curious glances.

  To the side of the bridge, a stack of dead trees rotted, branches hang
ing into the murky water.

  The shadow of the massive gate passed over them, and on the other side, Anya’s breath caught in her chest. The city of Kiev stretched in front of her, climbing up a gradual slope to a plateau that overlooked the lower city and the river beyond. The houses around her were all taller than Widow Medvedeva’s house. Taller than the village church. Anya gazed open-mouthed at them, wondering how buildings so tall managed to stay upright. Many of the buildings were made of stacked logs with cracks filled with mud—like Anya’s own home back in Zmeyreka. But others were brick and stone with wooden roofs towering over her head. The top of her head throbbed, ready for these tall buildings to come down on her as she rode by.

  They passed over another bridge, swift waters running beneath it. The road angled up to the plateau, cutting a line through more tall houses and shops. On Anya’s left, a huge space had been cleared out, obviously in preparation for construction of some kind. Workers labored, carrying bricks and wood beams from carts and stacking them on the site.

  Anya poked her archer again, and he turned with a raised eyebrow.

  “What’s that going to be?” Anya asked.

  “A church,” he said. “Tsar Kazimir has commissioned hundreds of new churches across the kingdom.” After a long pause, he said, “He’s truly a great man.”

  Anya watched the laborers haul building materials as the archer’s horse carried her up the hill. She thought of Dyedka’s Slavist worship, and of Mama’s prayers on Shabbat, and wondered what the tsar’s new churches were crowding out.

  They crested the road, emerging onto the tallest part of the city. Anya could see the wild Dnieper River behind her, its waves thrashing against its shores as it hurtled past. The forest reached to the horizon on her right, and she tried to pick out the giant tree. In the distance, its crown rose over the others like a mother standing over her children.

  The road curved left against a tall wall, and a fortified gate creaked as soldiers pushed it open. The archers went through with a casualness bordering on boredom, but Anya marveled at every little thing they passed: the royal guards in their brilliantly colored uniforms, the spectacular neatness of the cobbled road beneath the horses’ hooves, and even servants hurrying from one task to another.